


This is not enough

by Trojie



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dragons, Lies, M/M, Politics, Sleeping with the enemy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:28:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is so very far from being a perfect world. They're all just fighting to try and make it a bit better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is not enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [le_rameau](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=le_rameau).



> Written for le_rameau for Glompfest, for the prompt _Modern magical dystopia_. I hope this is something like what you were hoping for  <3

The steps in the main hall of the Natural History Museum in London are polished stone, and now the place is empty they click and echo beneath Merlin's feet in a deeply unsettling way. He knows he ought to be worried about the cameras and the security, because he's committing a crime by being in here at all, let alone after hours and after _curfew_ and, oh yes, in black and wearing a balaclava and carrying a sheaf of swipecards that aren't his, but it's the eyes he can see rather than those he can't that unsettle him. He creeps along the edge of the stairs, almost leaning against the balustrade, and down into the main hall, and he's weirdly comforted by the fact that Dippy, the giant _Diplodocus_ skeleton that overlooks the whole hall, is facing the other way.

No such luck in the marine reptile gallery, unfortunately - Mary Anning's ichthyosaurs stare down at him from the wall with baleful, empty eyes ringed in bone. The swipecard is for the doorway into the palaeontology section, because Merlin's magic doesn't work on electronics, which is largely why electronics were invented in the first place. It's the third card he's had to use to get in here.

The quiet 'declined' beep and the red light that flashes are probably really discreet when the place is full of people, but Merlin twitches and flinches. 

'Fuck it, Morgana, come on,' he mutters angrily and probably unfairly at the card his friend supplied him with, and swipes it viciously again, and again. 'Come _on_ -' and the door beeps in a friendlier tone and flashes green. 

There's a scuffling noise somewhere behind Merlin, but he can't afford to stop and look for the source, he's got to get into the curator's workspaces and hunt for his prize. He tries to stop the door slamming behind him but it's on auto-closers and it gets away from him and makes a lot more noise than he'd like. 

Oh well. Somewhere in here is an unspeakably valuable treasure, and Merlin has very little time to find it.

It's big, so he can discount all the thin cabinets and desk drawers. Boxes. It'll be boxed up, right? It's not been in long, Morgana's sources told her that much. No-one knows where they take these things after they've been assessed by the experts, but they spend a night or two in museums for that assessment, and this is Merlin's window of opportunity to steal it. To take what's rightfully his.

There's a battered wooden crate on the floor under a desk. It's awfully suggestive. It's the right size and it looks new. The gaffer tape holding it closed has been torn open jaggedly like someone did it with a key, not wanting to wait for a knife or hunt for scissors, and most importantly, it calls to Merlin, to the affinity he has with the natural world. Something in that box is his, and knows it. 

It's heavy. Tucking it under one arm doesn't quite work, so Merlin hoists it up and carries it in both hands in front of him, against his chest. He's almost at the point where he has to negotiate opening the swipe-carded door again when it opens of its own accord.

***  
 _One Week Earlier_  


Merlin Emrys and Morgana Le Fay don't take the Tube because they particularly like it. Unfortunately driving in London on their tight budget isn't prudent, and well … they do have other reasons to venture down into the foetid belly of Hell, which is what Morgana usually calls the Underground.

They sidle along the curving platform at Temple station, past everyone else, as far as they can until the light stops illuminating the blackness of the tunnel-bore ahead looking down towards Blackfriars. 

'Hello?' Merlin mutters in the dragons' tongue.

'It's about time,' said Kilgharrah testily from beyond the workmen's barriers. 'I keep having to dodge incompetent men in overalls and safety equipment.'

'It was this or underneath a castle somewhere,' Merlin points out, pretending to look for the next train down the tunnel. 'As it is, you've only got the place 'til they finish the upgrades. Don't get comfy.'

Kilgharrah sighs gustily through his long nose. Merlin can tell he's bored, but let's face it, the dragon's been stuck underground for nearly three hundred years, he's been bored for as long as Merlin's known him. Kilgharrah's the reason Nimueh sent Merlin here, rather than sending someone with more experience or power or whatever - Kilgharrah's a powerful ally, to the right people. 

_'Kilgharrah and I … don't get on,_ she'd said wryly, and Merlin's a Dragonlord, he can talk to Kilgharrah in his own language. It seemed sensible at the time. Except now he's kind of stuck babysitting a fifty-foot horse-faced gecko with a planet-sized case of the fidgets and a nasty sense of humour. And a highly-inappropriate plan for the triumph of Magic, which involves Merlin in a role he's not very comfortable with.

'Anything to report?' Morgana asks, tapping away at her phone as if she's texting. But Kilgharrah doesn't like talking to her. 

'I notice that the witch is still not with child,' he says to Merlin instead, in the oddly formal dragons' tongue. He always does this. 

Merlin does his best not to go maroon with embarrassment and starts to make a retort, in English, when Morgana sighs. 'He's talking about my uterus again, isn't he?' she asks in a resigned tone. 'The whole 'speaking another language' thing is getting old.' She leans against the end wall of the platform, and sighs. 'Listen up, you big scaly worm, my reproductive system is nothing to do with you.'

'Witch, if I had the opportunity to breed up an army of my kind, don't you think I'd do it?' Kilgharrah snarls at her. 'But I am alone. You have that ability, and with your power mated to Merlin's -'

Morgana slips her phone into her little bag and starts to count off points on her fingers. 'One, magic doesn't breed true. Two, even if you bred me like a cow for the rest of my life you'd only get eight or so babies, realistically. That's no army. Three, and I realise this is going to be the hardest thing for you to understand, _no_. No. Bloody. Way.'

'We pay with our bodies and our lives for what we believe. That is the _meaning_ of war, little witch.'

'If a simple majority's all you're after, I'll spend my time kicking every non-magic man I see in the testicles really hard, shall I? That ought to even the odds a little.'

Before Kilgharrah can summon a retort, Merlin steps in. 'No-one's breeding. Or kicking people unprovoked. Look, Kilgharrah, we're only checking in. Do you have anything to report or not? We've got to get home before the curfew.' In the distant reaches of the tunnels Merlin is starting to pick up the rough screech of train wheels.

No reply.

And then; 'Someone has found an egg,' Kilgharrah intones, just as the train's light starts to appear down the other end of the platform, and Merlin has almost given the dragon up as a bad job today. 'A dragon's egg. They have it in a safe place -'

'A _what_?' Merlin demands. Morgana grabs at him, trying to get him to the train doors. 'No, Morgana, give me a sec.'

'The train's here,' Morgana points out, as if Merlin couldn't tell from the crush of people. 'Come _on_.' This is the last train - if they don't get this one, they'll be stuck walking home after curfew. This is not a prospect Merlin relishes.

'Find it,' Kilgharrah advises wheezily and smugly. He loves to throw Merlin off-balance. 'Find it, and we shall see what can be done to bring this country back to Magic. Maybe we will even triumph despite your … squeamishness in other regards.' Merlin hardly hears him. 

Morgana practically hurls Merlin through the closing train doors and jumps in beside him. 'An egg,' he breathes, barely seeing the people he's crushed up against, or anything else for that matter. 'A real egg. Morgana. Think what we could -'

'I know,' she says, and while she doesn't look as wild with it as he does, when he focuses on her face there's that determined look he's come to fear and love, working with her. 'Merlin, I know. This could change everything.'

Even as he tastes the elation, Merlin starts to realise what little it actually means. 'But we'll never - I mean, how will we even find out where it is, let alone -'

Morgana's eyes sparkle. 'Don't you worry about that,' she says, taking his hand and squeezing tight. 'There's something I've been working on. That can wait, but I can still use - But …' and she looks at him measuringly. 'You're going to need a suit.'

***

Arthur barely looks up from his ringbinders as Uther enters the room. He already knows that his father will be brandishing a tuxedo, will have a certain expression on his face, will have a certain argument planned. He even already knows that he's going to lose this battle. But he has to try. He sighs, loudly. 'Father, please. I don't have time for this.'

'Your birthday is hardly an everyday occurrence,' says Uther, shaking the suit slightly. It's even got a bow-tie draped around the hook on the coathanger, Arthur notes. 'It will be one night out of your scintillatingly full calendar. It's important that you maintain _some_ kind of social life, Arthur,' he adds longsufferingly.

 _You_ need the appearance of being a happy family man, Arthur fills in silently, but he sighs, more resignedly this time. 'Aren't you at least going to try and bribe me?' he asks, because humour might reclaim his dignity slightly. 

'I've taken the liberty of inviting Elena as your date,' says Uther brusquely, laying the tux on Arthur's bed. 'No need to thank me.'

As Uther shuts the door behind himself, Arthur resists the urge to thunk his head onto his desk.

Perfect. Just … just fucking perfect.

***

'What do you mean, I need a suit?' Merlin asks Morgana suspiciously.

She pretends the Tube is too noisy for her to hear him. 

He asks again when they're on the street and heading (very nearly running - it's nearly eight) for home.

'You'll need a suit for this do,' she says, as if that's an answer.

'What do? Where are we _going_?' he demands as soon as he's closed the door into their flat. 

'We're going to Arthur Pendragon's birthday soiree,' she says, dropping the cheery smile for her game-face. 'Now for fuck's sake, find a bloody suit.'

Merlin blinks. 'We're - you what now?' Morgana's busily shedding her coat and slipping out of her office-work high heels. 'How are we -'

'I can get invites from work - they're always after us to boost numbers at Pendragon's stupid publicity stunts. That'll cover us getting there and getting home provided we stick to our normal routes.' She takes him by the shoulders and shakes him a little bit. 'It's just another mission, Merlin,' she says. There's something cold and clear and fierce in her green eyes. 'Only a bit closer to the target than normal. You can do this.'

'Please tell me you don't want me to set the place on fire,' Merlin says, a little weakly.

Morgana rolls her eyes, drops her hands away. The moment's broken. 'It wouldn't be the first thing you'd set on fire for the cause,' she points out. The twist of her lips, like she's bitten into something sour, reminds Merlin as well. 

'It's what we're here for,' he points out. 'Sort of. We're the revolution, aren't we?'

'If this works,' Morgana says, biting her lip, 'then we can burn it all down and start again. With a dragon, one that isn't cross-grained and burnt-out like Kilgharrah, we could _rule_.' She wants it with the same fervour Nimueh does, the perfect rebel, dedicated to the cause. To her, the dragon is a potential weapon.

Merlin is dragon-hearted, though. He wants their better world, but he can't help it - he's focused on the egg itself, the precious thing living inside it, more than anything else right now. He wants to meet that little life. 'We have to get it first,' he says. 

'We will,' says Morgana. 'If we stick to the plan.'

Merlin doesn't even know what the plan is yet, but something gnaws at his gut when Morgana says it, and smiles at him like that. 'Alright,' he says, laughing and trying to push the nerves and her away. 'I'll get a bloody suit!' 

He doesn't have Morgana's gift of prophecy, but he doesn't need that to be worried.

***

'I hate those party-political broadcasts.'

'Morgana, you say that every time.' Merlin sighs. He hates them too - hates seeing Uther Pendragon smile his stupid wolfish smile and tell the camera how much he's done to keep nasty evil Magic out of everyone's lives. For the longest time, Merlin thought his dad was in prison and would come back some day, until one day he asked one too many times and his mum told him the truth, as much of it as she knew.

'He's a dictator! We've been in this state of 'emergency' for twenty years. It's like he some kind of shield people are propping up to keep themselves from _thinking_.'

Merlin and Morgana are lolling on their couch. Merlin's switched off the telly mostly to prevent Morgana throwing something at it in disgust. It's just a normal Friday night at home, after a normal week at work, filing people's timesheets and doing office donkey-work. Merlin wanted to go to university, but that was never going to happen. Instead, he has temp-work, this poky flat, Morgana, and his cause.

Sometimes he thinks there has to be more to life than this, and then he remembers why there isn't, at least for him and his kind.

'They think he keeps them safe,' he points out. 'As if we're dangerous.'

'We _are_ dangerous,' she says. She almost growls it. 'How many things do we need to set on fire to prove it?'

'We don't need another Stonehenge,' Merlin says, feeling sick and not knowing if it's the nasty cheap vodka or the way Morgana's talking. 'There's sabotage and protest and then there's terrorism, Morgana.'

'We're just continuing political dialogue by other means,' she says.

'Sometimes I'm frightened by the fact that you work for the Government. My mum always says - '

Morgana snorts. 'Your mum hasn't worked out that underground resistance movements need resistance and movement. Face it, Merlin. Your mum's buried herself.'

'Shut up about my mum,' Merlin retorts. 'She's been a member of the dragons for years.'

'Go on,' says Morgana acidly. 'Tell me more about how Stonehenge was such a bad thing.'

'Fifty-five people _died_ ,' says Merlin, in his patented talking-to-drunk-Morgana voice. 'Their people, our people - they died, and it was stupid, and now - now we have this, this stupid world we live in. Stonehenge is why neither of us can go to university or get decent jobs, Morgana, because Stonehenge is why they started testing people for magic in interviews. Stonehenge is why half of our prisons suddenly emptied - Stonehenge is why Pendragon brought back the death penalty and people _cheered him_ -'

'People need to see action,' Morgana argues mule-headedly. 'They were bad things Merlin, I'm not disagreeing, but at least people sat up and took notice.'

'And they voted Pendragon in, and _then_ they voted to keep him there! All he has to do is _breathe_ the word Stonehenge and the _normal_ people do whatever he wants.' The anger in Merlin feels like a burning weight on him, like he can't breathe for it crushing him from within. But there's no-one here to get angry at except Morgana, and she's drunk and she's sad and it's not her fault, it's never been her fault. 

Merlin forces his breathing to slow. He can't explode here, at her. Morgana sighs, and drops her head to Merlin's shoulder. Her long, dark hair fills her face so that he can't see her expression. 'I hate this,' she says, muffled. 'I hate that fighting makes us look worse, and that doing good deeds gets us arrested. We're stuck, Merlin.'

***

Arthur has spent all week resenting the approach of this night. But here he is, waiting outside his house as twilight falls. Curfew is in ten minutes, so the guests are all arriving at once, eager to be inside before the hour strikes. It's actually quite interesting, the curfew law. It's been around ten years since it was introduced by his father. In fact, it was one of his final promises as elected Prime Minister before the Queen declared martial law and made him Lord Pendragon, Commander of the Realm and First Minister. Actual debates centred around it - civil liberties versus the need for control over potential magical acts. Witches and warlocks often need to work at a specific phase of the moon for a spell to work, and at the very least it's easier for a group to meet clandestinely outside at night.

 _Give your enemy nowhere to hide_ , Uther had said, on national television. And he'd smiled jokingly and added that _innocent people have nothing to fear, of course_ , and hadn't that just shut the Lib Dem candidate right up? Arthur's watched the tapes over and over, because in some of the old broadcasts you can see his mother, sitting off to the side, looking proud, smoothing her hand over her middle. Arthur doesn't have many pictures of his mother. 

A familiar car crunches up the driveway, and Arthur puts steels himself, his best 'society' face on, and steps up to it.

'Hi,' he says, offering Elena his arm as she unfolds from the limousine. He knows the secret to her grace is a) years of practice and b) flat shoes, but remembering a few shared childhood A&E visits makes him smile a bit more naturally than he would otherwise have been doing in the glare of all the paparazzi flashbulbs. 'I'm sorry Father's dragged you out to yet another one of these things.'

She flashes him a wide grin and takes him by the elbow gracefully. 'Well, it isn't as if either of us is seeing someone else,' she says, and doesn't that just make him wince internally? 'Tell you what, sweetie, you come out, and I will too. Won't that make a nice headline?' She says it quick and low enough that it won't be overheard, but it makes him worry. 

'Don't be foolish,' he mutters, and she jostles him lightly, flashing a winning smile at the nearest camera. 

'I'm never foolish,' she says. 'I've been declared an 'eccentric' by the _Sun_ , remember? That has to count for something. Frankly I'm amazed your father lets us play together any more.'

'And how many people are there between you and the throne?' Arthur retorts. 'You'd have to axe-murder fifty photographers at a convention before my father would believe anything bad about you. I swear, he still hopes we'll marry and there'll be a localised outbreak of plague and I'll end up king.'

Elena wiggles her fingers at him sarcastically. 'Maybe I should confess some sorcery. That ought to rid me of the terrible social burden you are to me. I hear Royal Holloway is comfortable and the uniforms aren't too unflattering.'

'Ugh, don't,' Arthur grumbles. 'Don't even joke about that, it's disgusting.'

She pats him sympathetically on the hand and then loops his arm around her waist. 'Shall we go in and get it over with?' she asks, and leads him in. Arthur steels himself.

Inside, it's all MPs and people who want to be MPs trying to get in a good word, reporters trying to overhear a bad word, lobbyists who want to 'have a quiet word' - when all Arthur wants to be doing is studying. He has an essay that he should be working on for his supervision next week, for a start. And it _is_ supposed to be his birthday.

Of course, his father can't pass up an opportunity to network. And this year there's been a resurgence in Magical terrorism, which makes all the quiet whispering and jockeying amongst party-members and hangers-on sort of interesting from Arthur's perspective. His degree is in History and he's hoping to focus on the history of, well, Magic. Seeing as he lost his mother to it, he feels as if he has perfectly legitimate reasons to be interested in the distasteful practice. They interview students with interests like that - Arthur flew through his interrogation without a hitch. And so he should have - as if he'd ever, _ever_ be a sympathiser. 

No, he's interested. But in the same way biomedical researchers are interested in smallpox.

He notices with a sigh that people are starting to quiet down and arrange themselves around his father, that the journos are starting to snap pictures with slightly more purpose. Beside him, Elena pokes him in the ribs. 'I think that might be the cake,' she points out. 'Time to go and be gracious.'

He grabs her by the wrist. 'Only if you come with me.' She rolls her eyes but takes his arm and basically bustles him over to stand just behind his father. By careful and sneaky manoeuvring she gets herself out of most of everyone's sightlines, almost behind Uther, so that Arthur is both standing next to his father and yet clearly in the company of A Woman. She knows that what Uther wants is a nice camera-friendly family unit to show off, but Arthur knows, because they've had conversations on the subject and he's had the odd shouting-match with his father about it too, that Elena is not going to be his cookie-cutter political bride. There's already a royal dynasty ruling Britain - Arthur has no desire to found a political one to ape them, and Elena's in agreement.

And to that, a resounding Thank God, Arthur thinks, accepting the knife from a caterer. It's hard enough being in the closet and lying by omission without having to add explicit untruths to it. 

Having the majority of the Conservative Party sing him Happy Birthday hasn't ceased being amusing since he was old enough to appreciate the sheer ridiculousness of it. The cake is his favourite, chocolate, and he diligently cuts it into portions and lets other caterers hand it out on napkins. Once he's done, Uther grabs him and hugs him, and Arthur returns it with some feeling. He always makes the most of his birthday hug, even if it is only for the cameras.

***

Because Merlin is a nineteen year old who exists on temp jobs and the charity of his longsuffering mum, unsurprisingly he doesn't actually own the suit he's wearing. He shouldn't be wearing it at all. He's so used to keeping up his cover as a normal person, keeping his magical nature penned, hidden under his skin, that anything different feels suspicious, dangerous. The last thing he wants is to draw attention to himself. The suit belongs to Gwaine, however, who Merlin met at his last job but one, and who makes an Olympic sport out of drawing attention to himself.

By contrast, Morgana seems to think that the best way to stay out of harm's way is to step right into it. _Go to London,_ Nimueh said to them. _You'll be given your orders. We have a revolution to win. Keep your heads down._ Her instructions were short, sharp, and to the point, and Merlin has so far followed them to the letter. 

Merlin's missions have been short and practical and uncomplicated. He's stolen (reclaimed) magical artefacts, and he's sabotaged political rallies. By contrast, Morgana sneaks and schmoozes and vamps her way into information. She got a fairly steady job in the Pendragon political machine by sneaking in on a casual contract, one that didn't require testing, and being so reliable they just … kept her on. Thanks to stultifying bureaucracy, she's now a trusted underling to the resistance's most hated and powerful enemy. She gets the intel and then Merlin acts on it, most of the time, and frankly, Merlin has been perfectly happy with this splitting of the workload. 

Tonight though, the lines are blurring.

The house Morgana ushers Merlin towards is _huge_. 'Mansion' is probably the correct term, with a sweeping gravel driveway and beautiful gardens, although most of what Merlin can see is the herbacious borders to the driveway, illuminated by the lights. The rest of the place shades away into the looming twilight. 

'This is really where the Prime Minister lives?' Merlin asks in a low voice. He resists the urge to fuss with his cufflinks. Normally his shirts button up. Or are t-shirts. French cuffs are an unusual enough intrusion into his life that he has this urge to pick at them. 'It's beautiful.'

Morgana shrugs, which makes her shoulders move fluidly under her fur stole. 'Kind of standard, really. This isn't the official residence. This is actually his personal home - it was his wife's house, before she died.'

Merlin doesn't say anything, just picks again at his cufflink. The son. He doesn't quite know whether or not he wants to think about Arthur just yet. Morgana has been hinting about exactly what she wants The Plan to entail. Merlin feels just as uncomfortable as he does when Kilgharrah is telling him he needs to get Morgana up the duff.

Morgana picks up on his hesitance. 'This isn't the time to get stage-fright,' she says, hisses really. 'I brought you here for a reason.'

'I'm still not clear on why you're the one doing the James Bond act and I'm the one using the feminine wiles,' Merlin jokes a bit awkwardly. The gravel crunches under their feet, hopefully masking their actual conversation. 

'Because Arthur's not likely to be distracted by actual feminine wiles,' Morgana says, and pokes Merlin in the shoulder as a reprimand. 'Believe me, I've done my homework. And now that we know about the - look, we need to get this done as soon as possible. All I need is for you to run interference for a bit so I can get in and photograph the documents. That's all, Merlin, I swear. Just, I don't know, flirt a bit. God knows you're his type.'

'You're Uther's secretary's secretary's secretary,' Merlin points out. 'Can't you just … find some excuse to photocopy the papers?'

Sarcasm practically drips from Morgana as she retorts, 'Have you ever heard of a thing called 'security clearance'? Here's a hint - I don't have it.'

'Have you ever heard of a thing called 'morals'? You clearly don't have those, either,' Merlin hisses as they reach the front door. From the way Morgana elbows him, he knows he's only got the last word because of timing. 

'Miss Morgana Le Fay, and my friend, Merlin Emrys,' Morgana says in her best 'society' voice to the penguin-suited man who answers the door, and they're ushered in. 'Remember, masculine wiles,' she mutters to Merlin as they enter the huge room the soiree is in. 

'I don't know why I help you,' Merlin says, peering around trying to work out who he's being aimed at. He knows roughly what Uther's son looks like, because he's always standing stoically in the background of Uther's party-political broadcasts, and Merlin does so love to watch those when he's drunk and angry, but he doesn't know _which_ blond, good-looking Cambridge boy he's supposed to be being wily at.

'Because you're helping the cause, not me,' Morgana says, taking two glasses of champagne off a circulating waiter and handing one to Merlin. 'Because I'm here to get hold of the Artefacts File, which is _very_ dear to your heart right now. And if all else fails,' she says, and spins him around to look at an extremely dishy blond Cambridge boy, 'because I'm asking you to chat up a fit bloke who's reading History at Cambridge, and that's probably the least-onerous task in guerrilla warfare ever.'

Merlin chucks back the rest of his champagne, mouth already kind of watering. 'Just call me Mata Hari,' he says.

Morgana mutters 'Mata Hari was on the wrong side,' but she smacks him on the arse as he starts making his beeline for Arthur Pendragon, so she can't be that annoyed.

***

'Oh yes,' says Elena suddenly. She and Arthur have lapsed into a companionable silence somewhere near the buffet table, applying themselves to strawberries and doing their best to avoid people with either Opinions or tape-recorders, which is what they always do at these sorts of occasions. 'Two o'clock, Arthur - I think you have a visitor.'

'God, please don't tell me it's that awful MP from -' Arthur starts as he turns. He doesn't finish that sentence.

'Mouth closed looks more dignified,' Elena reminds him gently.

'I bet you any money he's just after the fruit plate,' Arthur mutters.

'You mean the fruitcake?' Elena asks brightly. 'I'm sure you can supply him with plenty.'

'Christ woman, now's not the time.' Arthur stifles the urge to giggle. 'He's probably here to chat _you_ up.'

'Not my type, darling, I like them with breasts,' Elena has time to say just before the approaching young man gets into range. She hurriedly buries her smirk in her glass of wine and turns back to the buffet. Arthur just catches her beginning on small talk with Lady Etherington before he's greeted with a blinding, if nervous, smile. 'Uh, hi. My, uh, my friend -' he gestures vaguely in the direction of a striking brunette in a backless dress whom Arthur vaguely recognises from what his father usually refers to as 'the typing pool', '- says you're studying Political History, and I -

He hasn't actually thought of what he wants to ask - Arthur can see it in his blush and the way he pauses, and so he steps in. 'Interested, are you?' he asks without thinking, and argh, it comes out all wrong. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Elena, whose ability to converse and eavesdrop at the same time is amazing, snort in a distinctly unladylike fashion. More importantly, the blushing guy is rolling his eyes. 

'In history, yes,' he says pointedly.

***

Arthur Pendragon is a _complete arse_. Merlin can't say he's surprised. Disappointed, maybe, but no, not surprised. 

'But, and I'm just playing Devil's advocate here,' he says, because he has to _try_ , 'I wonder if it wouldn't have been more prudent to listen to the things that the activists had to say. I mean, we don't outlaw football because people have been crushed to death at football games.'

'Football itself isn't inherently dangerous and unstable,' Arthur retorts, and then snorts. 'I mean, well, it's not. If we're being serious. You can quite happily play a game of football without opening the door to a catastrophic explosion or all of the audience turning into ducks.'

Merlin opens his mouth to retort in turn, and suddenly Morgana is in front of him, smiling like a vixen. ' _Here_ you are,' she says, as if she's completely surprised that he's where she basically ordered him to be. 'We should get going if we want to make it home before midnight.' She flashes Arthur a blinding smile, and adds, 'We live a little way from here, you see. I'm Morgana.' She gets the breathless air of 'Pendragon groupie' just right.

'Fair enough,' Arthur says, clearly a little blindsided. 'Uh, you work with Agravaine, don't you? Haven't I seen you around Father's office?'

Morgana murmurs something pleased about being recognised, oh what a great honour, while Merlin retrieves his suit jacket from the back of a chair that some ancient dowager is currently occupying. He slings it over his shoulder. 'Well, uh, it was lovely meeting you,' he says to Arthur as sincerely as he can manage. 'I've got to get her home,' he adds. 'You understand.'

Morgana is perfectly capable of disembowelling every mugger in London even without her powers, but any excuse will do, right? Merlin just wants to get as far away from this overbearing Conservative political puppy-dog as fast as possible, and then possibly have a shower. 

But Arthur makes a regretful little face, and reaches out to shake him by the hand. 'Of course,' he says, and Merlin has to fight his inner Mata Hari a bit, because with the manners, and the blue eyes, and everything … Merlin could almost forget Arthur was his father's son. 'I've enjoyed this chat,' Arthur says, and grins. 'It's nice to talk to someone willing to argue the other side for once. Pleased to meet you too,' he adds, and bows a little towards Morgana. She dimples at him and steers Merlin, who's kind of sagging with relief for not having to be on point any more, away.

But before they can get away properly and out of the building, the pretty blonde girl Arthur had been with before darts up and catches Merlin's hand, pressing a bit of paper into it. 'Arthur wants you to have this,' she says with a mischievous glint in her eye. 'Trust me, he really does.' She whirls away again and Morgana resumes towing. 

Merlin looks down at the scrap of paper the girl gave him.

'What's that?' Morgana asks as they exit. 'Did he give you his number?' she says a little sarcastically.

'Uh,' says Merlin. 'Yeah, he kind of did.'

***

'What did you just do?' Arthur demands of Elena when she reappears through the throng of penguin-suits and black dresses. 'If you've -'

'You liked him,' she says pertly, picking up her plate again. 'And I think, despite your best efforts, he liked you too. More cake?'

'That wasn't an answer.' 

'You don't need an answer. You're a bright boy,' she say, twinkling at him. 'You know exactly what I did.'

Arthur resists the urge to thunk his head into the piece of cake Elena is offering him. 'I hate you,' he says weakly. 'He won't call me.'

'He might not,' she concedes. 'But he might.'

'I still hate you.'

She pats him on the head and puts the plate into his hand. 'You love me, sweetie. Happy birthday.'

***

Streetlights lend a weird yellow glow to the pale skin of Morgana's back in her dress as she wends her way through the streets, invite clutched in her hand as protection against curfew officers. Merlin trails after her, thinking. 

'Are you going to call him?' she asks. 

'Did you get the thing?' he fires back. 

She stops, turns and waits for him with her hand on her hip. 'I have everything you need,' she says, and links arms with him. 'But you should still call him.'

Merlin pulls free. 'I did what you wanted,' he says. 'Can't we just get on with things?'

'He could be useful, though.' Morgana makes a little face at the way Merlin's frowning at her. 'I've only got access to the office - you'd have the ear of the Minister's son himself. _Think_ about it, Merlin.'

'I don't like games,' he says to her, stopping stock-still and folding his arms. The borrowed suit folds around him like a sack, too wide across the chest. 'He's not his father - I don't want to hurt someone for the sake of it.'

'I thought you were Mata Hari?' Morgana says, a little coldly. 

Merlin is saved from having to respond to _that_ by the peep of a watchman's whistle behind him. He has to almost clamp his feet to the ground to fight the urge to run. They're dressed respectably, they have ID, they're on the most direct route to their home, and most importantly they have their invitations, signed by the First Minister, exempting them from curfew regulations for the purpose of returning to their homes after an official function. Morgana takes a step forward as the blue-clad officer huffs and puffs towards them. 

'We're on our way home, sir,' she says, smiling prettily. She holds out the invitation.

The watchman reads it. Merlin hates that he has to stand there and wait for him. The night-watchmen aren't policemen, despite the similarity of uniform. Policemen get training and are supposed to have judgement. Night-watchmen are just security guards. Their job is very simple. People not in their uniform have no business on the streets after eight pm, except with the written permission of the First Minister.

It itches Merlin that he can't do as he pleases - it always has. He sneaks a sly glance at Morgana, and can tell by the way she stands that the same thing is crossing her mind. And from his position a step behind her, he can see that the arm she's holding demurely behind her back is moving in a spell-caster's gestures.

'That looks to be in order,' the watchman says grudgingly, just as Merlin is starting to think about whether or not he needs to actually stop Morgana from doing something stupid. He'd always thought she had the cool head, between the two of them, but sometimes she does things that make him wonder. 'Get home fast, the pair of you. You looked to be loitering as I came up the road - you don't want to spend the night in the cells, do you?'

Merlin slings an arm around Morgana's shoulders, disrupting her. 'We'll be quick as we can, sir,' he says, and this time he's the one to steer them away.

'What were you doing back there?' he demands in a low voice as soon as he's sure the watchman is out of earshot. 'That was casting!'

'Did I cast anything?' she retorts. 'No I didn't. Leave off, Merlin, it's late. Too late for moralising.'

They get home and go to their rooms without saying anything further to each other. But when Merlin's taking off Gwaine's suit he feels in the pockets for his phone, which isn't there, and the scrap of paper that Arthur's friend gave him is nowhere to be found.

***

The problem with hosting your own parties is that you can't leave. Arthur stays to say goodbye to everyone, loading elderly party-members into their cars and waving younger ones goodbye, calling taxis even, because he has to be the gracious host. His father retreated to his study with some high-up colleagues after the cake, leaving the party to Arthur. Of course, there will be a few shots of him going upstairs to work even on his son's birthday in the papers tomorrow. The First Minister has to be dedicated and dutiful.

Eventually it's just Arthur, Elena, one last reporter from the _Times_ , and the caterers. Making sure the reporter sees, Arthur bundles Elena into her limousine with a kiss on the cheek. 

'He'll call you,' she says, patting him on the hand. 'Or at least, I hope he does. You deserve someone who can knock you down off your pedestal occasionally.'

'I thought that was your job?' Arthur asks, smiling at her and leaning on the car door.

'Maybe I need reinforcements.'

Arthur sighs fondly. 'Good night, Elena.'

'Good night, Arthur. Happy birthday.'

He waves the car away and then retreats into his house. No doubt feeling cheated of scandal, the _Times_ reporter takes his leave as well. Arthur ponders whether or not picking up dishes will spur the caterers into packing up and leaving faster, but then again, it's not his job to do the clean-up, and his father would probably be appalled. 

Speak of the Devil. 'Arthur?' Uther's voice rolls down the stairs. 'I need you here for a moment.'

Sighing, Arthur trudges up the stairs, pulling at his bow-tie. 'What is it, Father?' he asks, poking his head around the study door. Uther's ministers Gaius and Geoffrey, and Agravaine, who has always given Arthur the creeps in a mild way despite being his mother's brother, are readying themselves to leave, picking up their suit jackets and so forth. They file out before Uther replies, Agravaine closing the door behind him.

Uther's holding a file in his hands. 'You are my only son,' he says, which Arthur thinks is perhaps a little obvious, but he can recognise the signs of an impending speech. He sits. 'And I hope you know that I am very proud of you,' Uther continues.

'I do,' says Arthur, unsure of where his father is exactly going with this. 'Thank you for the party,' he adds, in case this is the point of the speech. He wasn't exactly gracious when Uther proposed the whole thing. 

'I also hope,' says Uther, perhaps wisely ignoring his son, 'that you understand what I am working for, the importance of what the government does as regards threats to Britain's security.'

'I do.' Arthur's on much firmer ground here. 'Father, what is this about?'

Uther puts the file, which is labelled 'Artefacts', down on the desk between them. 'You're the only person I can trust,' he says. 'This … thing cannot fall into the wrong hands. I need you to find it and destroy it.'

Arthur picks up the file, but doesn't open it. 'There are procedures for magical artefacts,' he points out. 'Surely this thing, whatever it is, is being taken care of?' He doesn't point out that there are laws about tampering with due process and magical paraphernalia, because a) his father knows that and b) his father can waive them if he has to.

'Procedures that will have it catalogued and stored and kept somewhere,' Uther says. He's pacing now, dragging one hand across the books on the shelf behind his desk, all the histories of magic and tomes of law, grimoires and casebooks, that he's used to fight with all his life. 'I can't take the risk that someone will find it, Arthur. This isn't a case of a charmed amulet. This thing cannot be allowed to exist.'

'So declare an exception and have it destroyed?'

'That would mean announcing its existence - exceptions must be published,' Uther points out. 'Arthur, I need you to do this for me.'

Arthur swallows, and holds his father's gaze. 'I will,' he says. Jesus, what are you _saying_? part of him is asking. Another part of him has been waiting for this for years.

'The file contains all the information you'll need.' Uther smiles, looks relieved.

Arthur nods and gets up. The suit is suddenly choking him. He knew, has known for some time, that one day he'd be drawn into actually acting for the party, proving that he follows his father's politics, but this?

'Arthur?' Uther says, and Arthur turns back. 'Happy birthday, son.' And yes, this, Arthur realises. This or anything, if his father asked him for it. If it was necessary.

Arthur walks back to his room, folder in hand, thinking. When he reaches his bedroom he closes the door behind him and puts the folder on his desk, on top of the final draft of his essay, which suddenly seems a lot less important. His wall is plastered with old newspaper clippings and photocopies of even older ones. His mother's face, a grainy, much-copied headshot that was the only photo the family would release to the press, peers out at him from a few of them. 

He knows the story. He knows it very well. Igraine Pendragon was killed by the Magical lobby as a threat to Uther, who was set to win the election. It didn't do them much good, really, because after that display of their methods the Conservatives won by a landslide, but there you go. The last British election was a textbook case of how not to run your protest campaign. Arthur has always been proud of his father and his father's work, but that's not quite the reason he's always been so interested.

Oh, there were rumours at the time that the Pendragons had done some dirty deal that went sour, but if you listened to conspiracy theorists you'd think that Man had never landed on the Moon. 

His mother's gentle, dark eyes smile at him from faded brown newsprint as Arthur picks up the file and begins to read. He reaches the words 'suspected Dragon's egg' and draws a shocked breath in, just as his phone goes off in his pocket.

***

Merlin wakes up, and his phone is next to him on his bedside table, blinking that he has one new text message.

Sometimes he thinks he should scold Morgana, but he's fairly certain it wouldn't stop her doing whatever she wants to. And in all honesty, sometimes the mad and slightly objectionable way she goes about things pays off spectacularly well.

The text message, sent just before midnight last night, says, 'I really enjoyed talking to you as well. Fancy continuing the conversation some time? Tomorrow night?'

Before he can chicken out, Merlin replies, 'Sure. Where, when?', and then puts the phone down and faceplants his pillow, wondering if hiding under the blankets until the real world goes away is a sane response to his life. Yes, Arthur is fit. And smart. And kind of strategic as regards the ultimate goal of finding some way to return magic to legality. But Merlin is quite bad at dating people (Will. Freya. Lancelot. They could all tell stories about Merlin's inability to commit and tendency to tell minor but constant lies, things that stem from what he does, what he _is_ , but still all things that make him, well, bad at dating). 

Morgana normally organises his missions. Having her organise his love-life is kind of weird. Even if it is sort of a mission at the same time. And thinking that, Merlin realises that this whole mess has the potential to get confusing quite fast. With a last lingering sigh into his pillow, Merlin decides that he'd do better to face the day than ponder smothering himself.

Morgana raises an eyebrow at Merlin when he staggers out of his bedroom to find her eating breakfast. 

He sits down, keeping a grip on his phone.

'Well?' she asks, lifting a spoonful of muesli.

'Apparently I have a date tonight,' Merlin says. 

Morgana smiles like a self-satisfied cat, and eats her cereal. 

'I still hate you,' Merlin points out, reaching for the muesli.

Morgana catches his hand. 'You don't hate me,' she says. 'And you're going to remember that this is your _duty_ , okay? This could be it, Merlin. I've got a meet tonight, to get you what you'll need, and then -'

'The dragon's egg,' Merlin says, and just the thought of it sparks some kind of wild joy in his heart. 'Did you get the file?' he asks. 'Was it - did you have enough time?'

She grins. 'It was easy,' she says. 'The egg's at the Natural History Museum. I can get you the ID you'll need to get in there, and then all you have to do is get it out.'

'That's a pretty big 'all',' Merlin points out. 'But - God, I can't believe I'm saying this - but I'll do it.' He blinks, thinks of Arthur and thinks of the way he talked and the way he smiled and the way he truly seemed to _believe_ his father's politics, and adds, 'All of it.'

He's grateful that he didn't get a chance to pour a bowl of muesli when Morgana launches herself half around and half over the table to hug him.

***

Somewhere around the second drink, Arthur has to admit that maybe Elena had a point.

'You are such an arse,' Merlin splutters, but there's a laugh in it. Arthur tells himself it's just whatever reckless thing made him say yes to his father that made him actually reply to Merlin's text last night, which he should have ignored, was _going to_ ignore - but he can't deny the fact that Merlin fascinates him. 

Arthur shrugs, smirks. 'You only say so because you don't have an argument.'

'Human rights are rights for a _reason_.'

'No-one's being denied human rights. That's like arguing that preventing people with machine guns from running around using them is denying their human rights.'

Merlin sighs hard, and the laugh lines drop away from his face. 'Can we talk about something that isn't your final dissertation topic, maybe?' he asks a little plaintively.

Arthur resists the urge to make a crack about how Merlin only wants to stop because he's losing, and orders another round of drinks instead, and the subject changes to music, and the old man Merlin helps care for as part of his volunteer work, who refuses to move out of his old, broken-down house and who keeps trying to set Merlin up with the other volunteer, Morgana, the girl from Arthur's dad's 'typing pool'. 

'Yeah, we flat together as well,' Merlin confesses. 'I think I need to expand my social circle a bit …' Shrugging, he adds, 'Maybe this is a good start?'

Just then, a cellphone alarm goes off in Merlin's pocket, and he winces. 'I should go,' he says. 'That means I've got just enough time to get home before curfew.'

'You could come back with me,' Arthur says, without thinking. 'I mean, you know, not for - I don't meet a lot of new people,' he finishes lamely. 'And I was having a good time.'

'Me too,' says Merlin softly. He blushes a tiny bit, and if Arthur weren't watching him as closely as he is, he might miss the way Merlin's teeth catch at his lip before he says, 'Are you going to take me home, then?'

***

Ducking curfew isn't hard if you know how to do it, and how to glamour yourself out of sight of the piggish security guards they hired to enforce it. Morgana can't do it with Merlin in tow, because he can't hide himself and she can't hide them both, but when she's on her own, when she's _working_ , the curfew washes over her like water. She likes the night-time. She walks the streets and she owns them.

'Were you followed?'

'If I thought I'd been followed, I wouldn't have just come straight here,' Morgana points out, trying to see who's waiting for her in the shadows. The voice is vaguely familiar. 'Do you have what I need, or not?'

There's a sigh, and then footsteps. 'Of course I do,' says Elena, emerging from the dark slash of space behind a stack of boxes holding a thick manila envelope. Warehouses are so cliched, but they're good meeting spots for a reason - cover, and emptiness, and silence. 

'You -' says Morgana, slightly shocked. 'But you're -'

'The third cousin of the Queen?' Elena finishes for her. She smiles. 'Have you heard of changelings?'

'You're a sleeper agent,' Morgana says, realises. 'A sleeper in the _Palace_ -'

'Just like you're trying to plant one in the Prime Minister's house,' Elena counters. 'Don't think I don't know what you were doing with your little friend at Arthur's party.'

'You're the one who gave Merlin his number,' Morgana points out. Her fingers twitch, she wants to grab the envelope so badly, but apparently Elena wants to talk, despite the fact that most of the success of a covert exchange of goods and/or services is wrapped up in how short you can make it. 'If you knew what I was doing, why so eager to get Arthur on my evil little hook?' she asks sarcastically. 

Elena sighs. 'Because … look, witch, Arthur isn't his father. I've been working on him, you know. At first I thought maybe I could turn him, bring him over to our side. And then I got to know him.'

'Don't they call that Stockholm Syndrome?'

'He's a good man,' Elena says bluntly. 'He does what he thinks is right. But you have to understand … you know about his mother, right?'

Morgana rolls her eyes. Yes, she knows about his mother. Does he know about hers? 'I know they blame her death on us.'

'He follows his father out of duty, but he believes what he does for because of his mother, you know.'

'He never knew his mother. He just doesn't want to _think_ about what his father does.' Morgana shrugs. 'Are you going to get to the point?'

'Love's blinded him,' Elena says. 'It'll take love to turn him. And I think your friend -'

'- Merlin -' 

'- Merlin, might just be what he needs.'

Morgana squints at the changeling girl, thinking it through. 'Why?' she asks, at last. 'Why, if you know Arthur, if you like him so much, are you dropping him straight into my hands? What if I decided to -' she twiddles her fingers suggestively '- do something with him? Make an example, perhaps?'

Elena glares at her. 'Because this war is coming whether he likes it or not, and I want him on the right side. Turn him,' she says, 'But Morgana … please don't hurt him.'

She thrusts the envelope into Morgana's hands and hurries back into her shadows.

***

'Who's a dirty stop-out then?' Morgana purrs as Merlin edges his way into the kitchen, still wearing last night's clothes. 

'The curfew -' Merlin starts, but he knows it's a futile gesture. He keeps walking though, because while Morgana doesn't have to believe that he simply spent the night on Arthur's couch because it was too late for him to go home, she also doesn't have the right to pry. He doesn't want to talk about it. More importantly, he doesn't want to be interrogated about it. She can think that Arthur's just another part of Merlin's mission, but after last night …

… after last night, Merlin can't. It's been a long time since he's had anything, any area of his life, that the rebellion didn't own, and despite how this started, he desperately doesn't want them to own this. Last night should be private. His. 

'Did he tell you -' Morgana calls, but Merlin shuts the door on her voice. 

He can't help his smile when his phone buzzes on a text alert. But as he sits down to read it, he notices the manila envelope lying on his pillow.

***

'So, who was he?' Uther asks at breakfast, and Arthur freezes. 

'A friend,' he says carefully, sitting and reaching for a piece of toast. 'I'm allowed to entertain, aren't I?'

'You're a little old for sleepovers,' Uther points out. 'Which leads me to the conclusion that whoever it was might be more than 'a friend'.'

Arthur butters his toast. 

Uther reaches across the table and pats him awkwardly on the hand. 'I realise that my position has put a lot of … social pressure on you,' he says. 'And that it might have made it hard for you to have normal relationships.'

Arthur shrugs. 'Honestly, Father, I don't need a speech. Or an apology. I've never minded, you know.'

'I know. You're a good, dutiful son.' 

'Who's allowed to have visitors?' Arthur asks. 'Without too much questioning?' He's pushing, he knows, but he thinks he'll get away with it. His father kind of owes him one at the moment, after all.

There's something urgent thrumming through Arthur now, suddenly sprung up between the cracks of the task his father wants him to undertake and this whirlwind of Merlin that's engulfed him, and he just has to ride along with it.

He pushes gently at a bruise on his thigh, hand demurely in his lap beneath the table, and waits for his father's reply.

'Of course,' Uther says after a moment. 'You're an adult. But Arthur,' he adds, and there's a little something wistful in his eyes. 'I'd like to meet him, one day.'

***

Merlin's last temp job finished a week ago, and he can't see the point of finding another one, not when he'd only have to abandon it. Let some other poor bastard get an income for a while. So he spends his day catching up on his washing, and then on Morgana's when he runs out of his own. He's trying to work out how the hell you fold a bra, or if you even do, when his phone goes off.

It's Arthur. _can't stop thinking about you. will you come over again?_

Merlin smiles first, the stupid smile of someone with a schoolyard crush, and then feels guilty. He's not supposed to be crushing on Arthur - he's supposed to be manipulating him. And then he feels guilty for Arthur, because he likes Arthur, and well, isn't this just a charming cycle of awfulness? _don't you have school tomorrow?_ he types back.

_i finished all my homework already ;-)_

It's clearly Merlin's eagerness to do his duty for the rebellion that makes something flutter in his belly when he texts back, _well all right then, when do you want me?_ and doesn't realise that could be taken a different way until after he's hit 'send'.

_;-) ___

***

'What are we doing?' Merlin asks, rolling into the middle of the wreck of Arthur's bed. He props himself up on his elbow and looks over at Arthur. 'Really.'

Arthur's got his face buried in his pillow, his blond hair sweated-through and darkened to brassy brown, the one sheet that's managed to stay on the bed swathed roughly over his hips. 'I don't know,' he says, muffled.

Merlin sighs, looks up at all the cuttings that line Arthur's walls. He hasn't asked, and isn't going to. It's not as if he needs to be told the significance, after all, and it's not a topic he wants to broach. He doesn't want to lie any more than he has to. 

Arthur rolls over to face him. 'Do you want to stop?' he asks. 'I mean, I know it's a bit mad -'

'God, no,' Merlin interrupts with, almost alarmed. He flops down until he's eye-to-eye and nose-to-nose with Arthur. 'I just - I've never felt like this before. Not this fast.' _Not this strong_. It's like a fever, the way it's taken him, taken him over. And it burns him too, because at the heart of it is the dragon's egg and his duty, and the knowledge that when he's done it he'll have to run. These are his last few days under the nose of the establishment. Come tomorrow, this all comes tumbling down.

'Neither have I,' Arthur murmurs into Merlin's neck. 'And I don't want it to stop.'

***

Morgana is doing filing at her desk in their tiny living room when Merlin walks in, wearing two-day-old clothes. 'I was beginning to wonder if you still lived here,' she says a little archly, but she's smiling.

'Look, don't complain when I'm doing what you tell me to,' Merlin retorts, flopping onto the couch. 'You called?'

Morgana spins on her office chair. 'Your window is tonight. Have you done the homework?'

Merlin shrugs. 'That's why I'm here now, isn't it?'

'I'm so sorry to have dragged you away from your love-nest.'

'Morgana, just -'

'Tell me he's at least telling you some stuff we can use?'

Merlin scrubs his hand over his eyes. The truth is, no. The truth is, they've talked about university, and Merlin's confessed he just works shitty temp jobs, but he's lied and said he's saving up to go to uni later, that's all. But the talking's just been a formality, a backdrop. Somehow between them it's been more silence, like the kind you get in a church, like they don't need to speak. He feels like he's known Arthur forever. And when they took to bed, that was quiet too, and Merlin had something he wanted to say but it's too early to say it and it's too mad to want to say it, and if he says it and then disappears, what would that mean? 

Merlin can do spells without speaking if he wants, but if he uses incantations his magic is strengthened, directed, given purpose. He knows the power of short words honestly-meant. He doesn't want to hurt Arthur that way. 

'He will,' Merlin lies. 'I'm just trying to gain his trust first, that's all. God, stop being so impatient.'

Morgana rolls her eyes at him. 'We don't have that much time.'

'I know that.' Merlin gets up. 'Look, I'll read the brief later. Right now I think I have to go out.'

Morgana gets up too, and follows him. 'I'm worried about you,' she says, her voice softer than it has been. 'I think - have I made a mistake, Merlin?'

'Pardon?'

The look she gives him is troubled. She bites her lip. 'Are you really Mata Hari?' she asks. 

Merlin shrugs. 'I have to be, don't I.'

***

'Why is it that you only come to see me when you fear things?' Kilgharrah asks, booming down the darkness of the Tube in the ancient tongue of dragons.

'I'm not afraid,' Merlin mutters. 'But you know things I don't, and something is _wrong_.'

Kilgharrah sighs. Further along the platform, a woman wraps her coat tighter around herself. 'I feared this day would come,' he says. 'Was my plan so repugnant to you, young warlock? The witch would have been a good queen to you when you reigned over Magic. Perhaps a little treacherous, but you have the power to tame that.'

'I'm not 'taming' Morgana,' Merlin hisses. 'And yeah, your plan horrified me. Can we move on? What day is coming?'

'A day of reckoning,' Kilgharrah intones. 'Is there any other kind that we would care about? You and the heir to Pendragon have been thrown together, and now the dark days are looming. The future is clouded to my sight, Merlin. You chose a path I cannot follow.'

'I'm going to get that egg,' Merlin says. 'Like you wanted me to.'

'And inside it lives the spark of all our hopes, the child of your heart,' Kilgharrah replies. 'The last of my race. But what will you give to get it?'

'You're speaking in riddles.'

'I'm telling you what I have seen. It is not my fault if all I have are shadows.' He clears his throat, a hacking rumble. Down the other end of the tunnel Merlin can hear a train approaching. Kilgharrah will have to move soon. 'Merlin, you are a Dragonlord and the most powerful warlock alive. Soon you will have a dragonling, young and strong and full of fire, where I am all burnt to ashes and embers. You will have power. But how will you use it?'

The train's light comes into view. 

'The enemy's heir is your stumbling block. You will have to choose, Merlin,' says Kilgharrah. 'You will have to choose!'

The train arrives. Kilgharrah is gone, for now. 

Merlin boards and thinks, holding onto a railing and swaying from side to side, all the way around the Circle line and back to where he started, and there still aren't any answers for him, not that he can see, at least. 

He will just have to do what he thinks is right.

***

'The item has arrived at the museum,' Uther says to Arthur at dinner. It's a particularly nice meal they're having, and Uther has opened a bottle of wine, and for once there aren't any folders or red boxes full of government work on the sideboard. Arthur has his father's full attention for once in his life. 'It will be moved again tomorrow - tonight is your opportunity. I've organised all of the right identification -'

'Thanks,' says Arthur. 'You can leave the rest to me.'

'I'm counting on you, Arthur.'

'I won't let you down, Father.'

Arthur dresses carefully, leaving anything that could identify him behind. He's arming himself, armouring himself. There's a car waiting for him outside, to carry him off to save his father's kingdom. 

So why doesn't he feel like a hero?

***

Merlin ducks behind a desk before the door can open properly. In the greyness of the low night-time lighting, he still manages to bash his leg getting to the ground, and the sound of his own breathing has become so harsh he just knows that whoever it is that's coming in will find him by that alone. 

The crate is too big, he thinks frantically. How big can a dragon's egg be? There must be loads of packaging in there, it must be loads smaller than the box. Conscious of every scraping, rustling noise it makes, he starts to pull at the already-opened and badly-closed slats of the crate until he can get at the … bubble-wrap? Really? … that surrounds the egg.

Once he gets it out it's all he can do not to stop breathing. It's beautiful, he thinks inanely. Hello, baby dragon. 

It's about the size of a rock-melon, a pale, warm bone-white with a violet cast to it that might just be the light in here. Merlin wraps his arms around it and tries harder to calm his breathing. It might just be a security guard. It might just be a random sweep. It might just be five minutes of silence before Merlin can get up and get the hell out of here. 

'Whoever you are, I can _hear_ you,' says the person who clearly isn't a security guard. 'And as scientists tend not to hide behind desks when going about their lawful business, I'm guessing you aren't one.'

Merlin clutches the egg harder and stays as still as he knows how. He knows that voice. He refuses to know that voice. Footsteps end with a pair of trainers at the end of a pair of black jeans appearing in his eyeline, around the desk in front. 

And then the shocked intake of breath. ' _Merlin_?'

'Hello, Arthur,' he says. 'Sorry about this.'

'What are you doing?'

Merlin shrugs, surrounded by broken bits of packing crate and holding a dragon's egg in his hands, in the middle of a national museum's backstage area, past curfew. 'Breaking a few laws,' he says, because the urge to laugh bitterly is rising in his throat. 

'Give me the egg, Merlin,' says Arthur. 'And -'

Anger flares. Merlin hates being given orders. 'And what?' he demands, shuffling backwards until he's tucked into the corner between desk and wall, wrapped around the egg. 'And find out what happened to my father? Find out what _your_ father really thinks about human rights?' 

'The law -' Arthur gets on his knees and reaches for the egg. Merlin all but snarls at him. 

'I know,' he growls. 'I know exactly what the law is. Why do you think I'm doing this?' Arthur's fingers graze the egg's shell just as Merlin kicks at him. ' _Get away_.'

'Give me the egg,' Arthur repeats slowly. 

The blaze in Merlin's soul is nearly uncontrollable now. He gathers himself for possibly the stupidest thing he's ever done -

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap-tap._

_Taptaptap._

'What did you do?' Merlin whispers.

'I didn't -' Arthur says, and spreads his fingers gently over the cracking surface of the egg. 'What's -'

'It's hatching,' Merlin breathes, magic burning through his skin, forgetting that he and Arthur are here for the same thing but not with the same purpose, that Arthur is his _enemy_ right now. 

'It's not supposed to,' Arthur mutters. 'This - I was just supposed to get rid of it.' He winkles his fingers in around the curve of the shell, trying to lever it away from Merlin. When he touches Merlin's body though, he jerks away like he's been bitten. 'Christ, you're burning up,' he says, sucking on his finger. 'You _burnt_ me.'

'I'm _magic_ , you fool.' Merlin says, angry because Arthur's stupid, angry because he should have known, should have realised he couldn't just love someone without consequences. 'You let me into your home, you had me in your _bed_ , and did I hurt you? Get out of my way, Arthur. I'm not in the mood to pretend I care about your laws today.' Because he can, because he's thrown everything else to the wind, because he doesn't have to lie any more, Merlin lets his itching palm bring up a ball of fire, a whirling glow. The baby dragon purrs and snuggles down further into the crook of Merlin's other arm.

But Arthur won't step away. 'Are you going to kill me?' he asks. He sounds more curious than afraid.

'Do you want me to?'

'If you kill me, you set your cause back another twenty years,' Arthur says, folding his arms. 'Just like you did the night my mother died,' he adds, and there's a bitter cold in his eyes that freezes Merlin on the spot. 'I suppose based on that logic I should want you to, yes.'

'We didn't kill your mother,' Merlin says. 'And no, Arthur, I'm not going to kill you.'

'I suppose I should have known,' says Arthur. 'I don't meet people. Particularly not people who want to debate magical politics with me. Or who then still want to sleep with me. Were you just spying on me, or were you going to try to assassinate my father? I was your way in, wasn't I?'

'No -'

'I can't believe how stupid I've been,' Arthur says, almost to himself. He perches on the edge of the desk, puts his torch down. 

The dragon is squirming in Merlin's arms now, and he can see that if he's going to get away, this is his best opportunity, when Arthur's guard is down, but he can't let this lie. 'Arthur, please, I never meant -' 

Arthur pulls out his cellphone. 'My father isn't going to like this, but getting caught is better than letting you get away with that thing, I suppose.' He dials three numbers before Merlin has a chance to do anything. 'This is Arthur Pendragon,' he says. 'There's an emergency at the Natural History Museum,' and hangs up. That's all. 'And now we wait,' he says. 'You might as well tell me what you were planning to do, why you bothered with me at all.'

Merlin doesn't have any more choices. 

'I love you,' he says, and it's stupid and it's true and he should have said it before. 'After a week, Arthur, I love you. I'd do anything for you. But you chose wrong, and I'm sorry.'

***

The blast knocked Arthur out, destroyed most of the room and blew a man-sized hole into the bomb-pocked ancient walls of the museum. When the emergency services did finally turn up, it was too late to catch the man who'd done it.

***

When Arthur Pendragon succeeds his father as First Minister, there's a tall man standing at the back of the gaggle of photographers at the ceremony.

Five years later, four amateur photographers swear they possess footage of a dragon flying over the Houses of Parliament on the day Arthur Pendragon starts an official inquiry into the treatment of those suspected of sorcery.

Ten years later, late in the evening of the day Arthur Pendragon decriminalises the possession of magical potential, there's a visitor waiting for him in his study. 

'Whoever you are, you have to make an appointment,' Arthur says tiredly, walking straight past them to the bottle of whiskey on his sideboard. He pours himself a glass and turns, to see the visitor pull back their hood and smile nervously at him. 

'I'm not sure they'd give me one,' Merlin says, his voice the same as Arthur remembers it from the last time they spoke, the three words he said that broke something in Arthur just like his power broke that wall, to let things in that had never been there before.

'Merlin -'

Merlin smiles nervously. 'Can we talk?'

***

The future begins every time you change your mind.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Recruits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4366712) by [Trojie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie)




End file.
